Love Always Dies
by VeronicaDean
Summary: Another fire―and another note―revives the search for the Phantom. Almost two years after he left the Paris Opera House in flames, the Phantom reminds the world of his presence. What else does he have planned? And how will it affect the lives, and marriage, of Christine and Raoul? (This sequel is meant to be read as if Love Never Dies didn't, and won't, happen).
1. Vengeance

Note: 

This is a sequel to Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, _The Phantom of the Opera._ This story doesn't take the actual sequel into account. So, when reading, read it like _Love Never Dies_ never happened, or will happen.

My sequel starts in the winter of 1892, over a year after the falling of the chandelier, and the subsequent fire that burned down the Paris Opera House. I have 24 chapters planned, all varying in length. This first chapter is quite a bit shorter than most will (probably) be.

Disclaimer:

I do not own any adaptations of _The Phantom of the Opera_ , or its characters. No copyright infringement is intended.

This is rated M for violence, language, adult themes, and some (not detailed) sexual content in future chapters.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Vengeance**

He thought he may never find them. After more than a year of searching all of France, he had almost given up. The only thing that continued to drive him was his anger. It was his battalion of rage that propelled him forward and forced him to keep looking, despite that voice in the back of his mind telling him it was pointless.

But, at last, there they were. The group of roaming Romanis who advertised freaks of nature that would satisfy even the most macabre of appetites. The second time around, he was the one holding power over them.

If it were possible, he would squeeze the life out of every single one of them with his bare hands. Or perhaps he'd brand each of their faces, lock them up, and watch them starve to death. But, despite his extensive fantasies, he decided to go about it more efficiently. He couldn't afford to be sloppy. Not this time.

The night before they were going to leave town, he had everything in place. It went off without a hitch. They'd been blown apart by the explosion, and what was left of them was taken by the flames. Horrible screams filled the chilly air, along with the stench of burning flesh. All too familiar.

Only an hour before all the carnage, he'd sent his letter to the police station.

 _The debtor has come to collect. And I have been well compensated._

 _I came for the blood of the freak show's masters; the blood of the guilty. And I received it._

 _Surely, there will be outrage over my claim of innocent lives,_

 _but I can assure the populace of this: no one in this world is truly innocent._

 _I am not a greedy man. By the time you receive this, I will be long gone._

 _I will not be taking any more lives from this dreary town._

 _However, should you continue your attempts to find me,_

 _all of you shall meet your fates sooner than you may wish._

 _Your obedient servant,_

 _O.G._

He knew that they would keep looking for him, despite his threats, though that was at the back of his mind. He'd just killed the ones who made him into what he was―wiped them, and their children, out. So why did he still feel such intense vengeance in his heart? _Why_ , he asked himself, _do I still feel more monster than man?_


	2. Dread

**Chapter 2: Dread**

Raoul was in the study. Christine was having her midday tea in the formal dining room. Even though Raoul was not making any audible sound in his study, Christine could hear the gears ticking and turning in his head. The new Opera House was going to start construction come next summer, but there was still much work to be done. Even so, he was determined to build it as soon as possible. He had been trying for months to get Christine to consider working there as the lead soprano once it was complete. She was adamant in her refusal; it was just one of many things about herself that she wouldn't try to explain to him. He wouldn't understand.

The tang of lemon remained in her mouth as she got up and walked towards the kitchen. She never liked calling for the maid to do such trivial tasks for her. She was still not yet accustomed to Raoul's extravagant lifestyle. They had been married almost a year now, and she had moved into his manor immediately after the honeymoon. The move-in wasn't much of a process; she only had a few keepsakes that Madame Giry had rescued for her from the fire: a doll she had from when she was a child, a portrait of her father, and his Swedish pocket-watch. All of her clothes and other belongings were ash now.

She reached the kitchen. There she saw the cook, humming to herself while prematurely cutting up vegetables for supper. They smiled at one another, then Christine set her teacup and saucer in the large sink. She turned to exit, but saw Raoul standing in the doorway, an odd look on his face .

"Christine, would you join me in the sitting room? The police are here and they want to talk to us," he said carefully, "It's nothing to worry about, darling."

He was lying. She could always tell when he was lying. His attempt to soothe her made her even more stressed. _He's back_ , she thought, _what has he done now?_

Still, she nodded her head and followed him back into the sitting room. Two policemen were waiting for them. They sat next to each other on an indigo sofa. One was older with a handlebar mustache framing his mouth. The other looked young and sort of aloof, a fact that he tried to conceal beneath a deadpan expression. It didn't help much. He also had a pad of paper in his left hand, and a pen in the right. Upon seeing the couple enter the room, the two public servants stood up.

"Good afternoon, Viscount and Viscountess de Chagny. I'm Inspector Duchamp, and this is Inspector Rousseau," the older policeman motioned to the younger, "We're sorry to bother the both of you, but there's been an incident."

"What sort of incident?" Christine asked.

"Why don't we sit down first, sweetheart," Raoul said, taking her arm and guiding her over to the love seat across from the police.

She hated it when he treated her like a child; she may have been through a lot, but she was nowhere near simple. Now, though, was not the time to get upset over it. She let him lead her there. They sat down in unison, and Raoul put his hand over hers.

The senior lawman shifted his gaze between them both before speaking, "Last night, there was a fire at a freakshow run by some gypsies in a town outside of Bordeaux. It was started intentionally, and the perpetrator sent us a note. It was signed by the same 'O.G.' that was responsible for the Paris Opera House fire."

Christine felt her heart fall into her stomach, "How many were killed?"

"Sixty-three were killed, and nineteen were injured," Duchamp replied softly, "We were wondering if you have any idea―"

"May I see the note?"

Raoul gripped her hand, "Christine, I don't think that'll help anything."

"May I see the note?" She asked again, louder.

"I'm sorry, but we don't have it with us, Madame," he told her.

Inspector Rousseau jutted in, "We have some questions we need you to answer, " he paused, "If you would be so kind."

His elder shot him a look, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Of course," Raoul said, "What do you need to know?"

The boorish cop began, "Well, first―"

"We wanted to know if he's contacted either of you since the fire," Duchamp stated, cutting him off.

"We haven't heard from him. He's been out of our lives ever since that night. I wish we were better able to help you, gentlemen, but if your questions are all concerning whether we've seen him or heard from him, then we won't be able to help," Raoul spoke on behalf of himself and his wife.

"Then, that's all we need to know," the policeman said, "We thank the both of you for your time, Viscount."

Christine was sitting still, her eyes locked on the floor. Raoul glanced at her briefly before replying, "It's no trouble at all, monsieurs. Has this incident helped you in your search for him?"

"Well, it's certainly breathed new life into it. If you hear, or remember something, then please come down the the station. Anything may help," Duchamp stood up, followed by his junior.

"Renée, please show these men out," Raoul called out to the butler.

The two policemen were led out through the double doors in the front of the chateau. The butler's footsteps echoed throughout the otherwise quiet home, retreating back towards the kitchen and servant's quarters. Christine still hadn't looked up, and Raoul hadn't stopped holding her hand.

"It'll be alright, Christine. You're safe here. He's done with us. He won't come back to Paris," Raoul said, his eyes on her blank face, pleading at her to look at him, "What's on your mind?"

"I didn't think he would kill again. He changed. I just don't understand," her voice broke as she said it.

Raoul opted to stay silent, hoping she'd keep talking.

After a prolonged pause she said, "He must've had some sort of reason. He wouldn't kill people for no reason."

Raoul frowned, and took a deep breath before he spoke, "Does having a reason make it okay to kill people?"

Christine abruptly took her hand out from under his, whipped her head to face him and made eye contact, "Of course not," her voice rose, "You know I don't think that. I just..."

"You just what?"

"I just don't understand why he would do this after everything that's happened," tears began forming in her eyes against her will, "Good people don't just kill for no reason!"

Raoul's jaw locked, "Good people? You think _he's_ a good person? After he terrorized everyone at the opera house? He kidnapped and lied to you, and he almost killed me! How can you still be so blind, Christine?" He stood up and started pacing around the room, "There's no excuse that you can possibly make for him. He's not a good person; he's barely even a person, with all the things he's done. Why, in God's name, do you keep on defending him?"

"He _is_ a person," she cried, "and he's done horrible things, I out of anyone would know that! But he has good in him; I've seen it. He wasn't all bad. No one is. He―"

"He manipulated you! And he's done a damn good job of it, apparently, with you as his champion," Raoul scoffed, "He tried to force you into marrying him. He's psychotic. God only knows what else he might have forced you to do."

"How can you say that to me?" Christine looked at him through narrowed eyes, sobbing.

Raoul turned to face her, opening his mouth to speak, but took a moment to collect himself, "I'm sorry, Christine. I shouldn't have said that."

He made his way back to the couch, and got on his knees in front of her. She looked away, but he took her hands in his and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know how I feel about it, and when you defend him, it upsets me. But, that's no excuse. The last thing I ever want to do is to hurt you, darling," he brought one of his hands up to touch the side of her face.

"I know that," she said quietly, "And I know that he's done terrible things, but I can't help the way I feel."

 _It's been almost two years, and he still has this much of a fucking hold over her_ , Raoul thought, _he's still ruining our lives, even now_. _I should have killed him after he let me go. Christine would've been upset, but she would've forgiven me. She's too kind-hearted. I wish he were dead. I'd give anything to watch him hang. I should've killed him. I could've killed him. Then that piece of shit would be out of our lives forever. Christ, I―_

"Raoul?" Christine was looking at him once more, "I'm sorry. I wish I didn't feel the way I do, but I do. There's no excuse for what he's done, I know that. I'm sorry."

"No, Christine, you've got nothing to apologize for," He kissed her forehead, "I just hope that's the last we ever hear of him. You deserve, _we_ deserve, to be able to move on and live our lives."

She nodded, solemnly.

"We have to leave the past behind," he stood and began to walk out, but stopped at the doorway, "I love you, Christine."

She wished she could truthfully return the sentiment.


	3. Guidance

**Chapter 3: Guidance**

It had been days since their spat, yet Christine couldn't think about anything else. She writhed around in the bedsheets; Her Angel of Music had killed again, and she knew that somehow it was her fault. _I could have done something_ , she thought, _I don't know what, exactly, but I could have stopped it. If I had stayed with him that night, if I had just agreed to marry him, then we wouldn't be here right now. Raoul would be happy with some other woman, and all those people wouldn't be dead._

These thoughts had become compulsive. Christine couldn't stop them, though she tried. Even so, she wasn't completely sure she wanted to. Thinking about the Phantom was something she had avoided doing ever since she got married. She had worked so hard to push him back into the farthest recess of her mind. But now it seemed this work had been in vain. The visit from the policemen had triggered a restlessness and anxiety that she hadn't felt since the passing of her father.

Raoul was at a loss. His wife hadn't left the house since she heard about the fire. All he could do was watch her stare into space during the day, and toss and turn at night. Well, watching her was all he could bring himself to do.

 _I'll never understand her_ , Raoul thought, _no matter how hard I try_.

He shifted his body so that he was facing her. She was lying on her back with her eyes fixated on the ceiling. He watched her breast rise and fall at a quickened pace. Her long hair was splayed out across the pillow, staying mostly in place. But Christine's expression looked so dreary, so miserable, that it hurt him to see. Raoul opened his mouth to speak, but shut it immediately.

 _What can I even say?_

* * *

It was still dark out―so early that the birds hadn't started their song. Christine got out of bed slowly, hoping not to rouse the man asleep beside her. _Of course he hasn't had any trouble sleeping_ , she thought.

She carefully made her way over to her vanity, and picked up her rosary. Christine lowered herself to the floor, rested on her knees, and whispered the prayers whilst gripping her beads tightly.

"Amen," she uttered.

She rose and turned to make sure Raoul was still asleep. Once she heard a quiet snore, she went to the wardrobe and grabbed her thickest cloak. Christine put it on over her nightgown, making sure she was mostly covered. She picked up her silk socks, sat down, and quickly put them on, followed by a pair of old, worn boots.

The oddly dressed Viscountess went downstairs and was, thankfully, greeted by no one. She rushed outside through the back door, and went directly to the stables. The door to the stables was closed, so she knocked―to which there was no response. She hit again, louder, and soon heard muffled footsteps coming near.

A boy in his mid teens opened the door, "Viscountess? Is there something the matter?"

"I need to go somewhere," She said.

"I'm just the stable boy, Viscountess, I'm not allowed to take anyone anywhere," He yawned, "I can wake the coachmen if you'd like?"

"But you do know how to drive the coach?"

"Yes, Viscountess, I do. But―"

"Please," Christine pleaded, "I'd much rather you take me. Please?"

The coachmen was a true professional. He would never dare take Christine somewhere unaccompanied. If she wanted her husband involved in this, she would've just woken him up in the first place.

"But you're in your nightgown and I don't think―"

"Well I'm the Lady of this house and I'm saying you can. Now, please, get the coach together. And please hurry. I really must be going."

The young man looked at a loss, furrowed brow and all. Then, in a snap decision, he turned to go prepare the coach.

Light was just beginning to dawn when the pair arrived at the frost-covered graveyard gates. Christine walked at a quick pace towards the entrance, taking the icy morning air into her lungs. The boy was seated at the front of the coach, waiting for some instruction from his Lady, but received none. So he remained, watching her disappear into the graves beyond.

Gustave Daae

His name was carved into the stone of the mausoleum; it was still unchanged by time, untouched. For the second time, Christine found herself on her knees, kneeling on the steps just below her father's capsule. She was not praying this time, though, she was speaking.

"I don't know what to do, papa. I don't know why he―I don't know how to stop it," she said through tears, "I wish you were here. You'd know what to do. God―"

Christine's tears turned into gasps and sobs. She let her whole body fall to the ground. _I'm so stupid_ , she thought, _such a fool. Papa can't help anyone. He's dead. He's gone_.

And so was her other protector. In the past, she spoke to her father through the Angel of Music that he'd supposedly sent. The Angel that turned out to be worse than a demon in disguise; the Angel that was nothing but a man. What comfort did she expect to find at the grave of her father, now?

 _I shouldn't have come here,_ she thought, _this was a mistake. This doesn't help me or anyone else. And now I've gone and made my husband worry about me. I'm so selfish. So stupid._

A large lump pulsed in her throat, and she struggled to breathe for a few moments, but she worked hard to pull herself together. She wiped her face with her hand and took deep, long breaths. She shivered as she stood up, then she saw it.

A slightly wilted red rose with a black ribbon rested on the stone floor, perfectly centered in front of the mausoleum entrance. It was calling card―or was it more of a warning? Christine didn't think it possible for her to fall deeper into numbness, but she'd been wrong. She stared at the malicious flower; the symbol that carried the power to make time stop in its tracks.

Christine was released of its hold eventually, and started turning her body in circles.

"What do you want?" She yelled, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She clumsily walked up the mausoleum steps and picked up the rose. She held it up, waving it as she repeated herself, "What do you want?"

She waited for her ghost to appear, to hear his voice, or feel his presence. But he was not there. Feeling now even _more_ cold and foolish, Christine squeezed the bud of the rose, mutilating it, and threw it on the frozen earth. She then ran back towards the coach, her right hand stained red, and her dark cloak thrashing behind her. Little Lotte left far more disturbed than she had arrived.


End file.
